Sometimes the Only Way to Get By Is to Get High
by SomewhereApart
Summary: It is Henry's birthday, and Robin seeks Regina out, hoping to offer comfort. They both get a little more than they bargained for. Set during the missing year in the Enchanted Forest.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note: I will definitely be finishing Give Me No More Than Just Enough - in fact, I only have one finicky chapter left to wrap up (the next one to be posted, unfortunately) before that one will be completely written. But sometimes ya gotta take a little break from the angst for some... less angsty angst and silliness.**_

_**This installment of the story is rated T, the rating will change for the next part. **_

_**Many thanks to J and her brother, for imparting the wisdom that you really CAN do that with an apple.**_

* * *

He is not sure why he is here, not sure what exactly has convinced him it is a good idea to seek her out. He knows, he is certain, that she does not want his company. She so rarely does. No, that's not correct - never has she ever, since her party first returned, bedraggled and forlorn, to the Enchanted Forest, desired his company. She has tolerated it, on occasion, rued it more often than not, and downright derided it on certain days. Today, he is sure, it will be the last of those options, and yet here he is. Compelled. Invading her privacy here, in her inner sanctum, in the shade of the apple tree that he's been told has traveled worlds with her she holds it so precious.

He wonders why, and he considers asking, but he thinks if that was his opening, she would surely turn him away.

She sits on the bench that rings the tree, spine straight as an arrow, her hands gripping the stone tightly near her hips. She must know he's here, she is nothing if not always aware of her surroundings, but she hasn't acknowledged him.

He feels like an intruder, and rightly so - this is a private place, and it is a painful day.

She'd walked into their council meeting that morning a few minutes late - a rarity for her - and the very second she'd passed through the door, the whole room had colored with her dark mood. She did not look well, though she was dressed as regal as ever, clad in leather and velvet and crusted with jewels enough to feed a whole village for a week. Her hair had been severe and tight, twisted up on top of her head. There was a storminess to her, a tempestuous undercurrent far beyond her usual caustic self (he rather thinks she fakes it most days, and he wonders if it isn't tiring to keep up that level of determined ire, but today her fury had seemed to radiate from her very bones).

"Is this really necessary?" she had hissed at Snow White, every word bitten off and hard. "Today, of all days?"

He had looked from her to the Princess, and watched as something had dawned over her face, horror and apology and sadness all at once. So expressive, Snow. He imagined she couldn't hide behind any pretenses of her feelings if she'd tried. And she had shaken her head, and said in a voice full of kindness, "No, no, it's not. I'll make sure you're informed of anything important; you should go. I didn't think."

Regina had snorted, and sneered, "You never do," and she'd turned and stalked from the room, a mere raise of her hand all it took to send the chamber doors crashing shut with a loud bang.

"Snow?" the Prince had questioned, and all eyes had swung to her.

Her own gaze had dropped into her lap, to her hands, and she'd said quietly, "It's Henry's birthday. I completely forgot," and there had been guilt there, and a hint of tears, and Robin had wondered if they were for Regina or for her own forgetfulness.

He'd heard stories of the boy - of Henry. Not from Regina, never from Regina, she brooked no conversation of the boy she was persistently mourning the loss of. But Snow loved to speak of him, of the grandson they'd left behind. Of his kindness, and his strong belief in all that was true and pure, and in the goodness he'd brought out in Regina. Of the former queen's fierce loyalty to him, even at the cost of her own desires.

So yes, he'd thought, a bit of that sadness must have been her own, but Robin had looked back at the doors Regina had shut so soundly on them, and had felt the same kindred sort of sadness he'd experienced when they'd first snuck into this castle together. When he'd told her of Marian, and she'd told him of Henry, and her misery had been so great she'd wished simply to sleep forever. He knows the way grief can feel heavy and choking on certain special days, and he worries for her. He cannot say why, considering her sharp tongue and her glaring eyes and her efforts to belittle him every chance she gets. But he worries, all the same.

So here he is, seeking her out, sneaking up on her in her private moments, just to assure himself that she hasn't succumbed to the desire for that endless middle again. Just to ensure she's safe. Perhaps to offer her a bit of comfort if she'll have it.

She's changed her garments, and she looks less queenly now, clad in a simple black dress and coat, her hair loose, tumbling freely over her shoulders. He's seen it pulled half up, half down, still curled and coiffed, but he's never seen her quite like this. Undone. Like she'd pulled it from the knot it had been so pristinely twisted into before and simply let it fall. He thinks she is stunning, a beauty, and despite the sadness that comes off her in waves, she looks soft. Almost approachable.

Almost. But not quite.

Yet approach her he does, although he isn't sure exactly why, or what he'll say. He'd thought he might try to comfort her, to tell her he understands her pain, but that hadn't gone well the first time he'd tried it, and he doesn't imagine it will go over any better today. Still, he walks to her, sits beside her, and since he doesn't know what to say, he says nothing.

The only indication that she has even noticed his presence is a quiet sigh of irritation. Otherwise, she stays silent, eyes trained ahead on the beautiful vista of her kingdom, lit up with a fading sunset. It's stunning from just this spot, but he imagines she's in no mood to recognize its beauty.

Still, she doesn't ask him to leave, doesn't ask anything of him, and so he remains, shifts slightly to lean back on his palms, and takes in the view as well. Maybe he'll just sit with her a while.

**.::.**

Breathe in, breathe out.

That's what she tells herself. That's what she tries to focus on.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Nothing else. Nothing more. She tries to clear her mind of everything but the simple act of breathing, of the cool night air filling her lungs.

It isn't working.

Her thoughts are too loud, too insistent, too painful. Deafening and agonizing, and she has been sitting here so long that she can feel a dull ache in her tailbone where it rests on the stone bench, and her fingers ache where she has them pressed hard to the underside of the seat, but she is trying, God, how she's trying to push everything back. Away. Down.

It is Henry's birthday.

He is twelve years old today, and she is not there to see it. He is opening gifts, and none are from her. And even if there was some way, even if she could send him a token across the realms to let him know that she is thinking of him today, and every day, every minute, it wouldn't matter one iota, because Henry has no idea she has ever existed. She wiped his every tear, and changed his every diaper, and soothed his every fever, and helped him master long division, and every memory is hers and hers alone. To him, she has never been there. To him, it has always been Emma.

The loneliness is punishing, a loud cacophonous thing. Memories assaulting her, smothering her, pressing in on all sides until she feels like she can't breathe under the weight of them.

And then he is sitting next to her, the thief, the last person in the world she thinks she wants to see (no, that's a lie, the last person she wants to see is Snow, with her simpering apologies, and her desire to share, to make everything better), and Regina lets out a huff of annoyance, all she can manage, and thinks that maybe if she just ignores him resolutely, he will take the hint and leave.

But he is persistent, as ever, and he stays, puts down roots it seems, grows into the bench much like she has. They sit there, in silence, for what seems like hours, although Regina knows, logically, in cannot be, because the sunset has only faded to dusk, and the stars are only just winking into life above them.

It would be a pretty night, she thinks hollowly, if she wasn't so miserable.

And just as she thinks it, he says it, "It's quite the sight, isn't it?" his voice quiet, but not pitying, and for that small favor she is grateful.

She wants to give him some sort of barb, some sort of snide retort, but she has lost every drop of her anger to this thick, cloying sadness, so all she does is cant her head slightly to to the side. She doesn't look at him, doesn't speak.

Robin shifts next to her, settles his hand on the front of the bench now instead of the back, mirroring her, shifting closer, and she can't help the glance it pulls from her, quick and furtive, just for a moment. Not to his face, not that far, just to his knees as they move closer, and then he settles, and he is so close that she can feel the heat of his hand next to her own, their skin only a whisper apart, so close that if she released her grip on the bench just a little, she thinks they'd touch.

And so she does.

She's not sure what compels her, but she relaxes her fingers, lets her palm go soft and pliant instead of clenched hard, until she feels the warmth of him flush against her. He seems to take it as invitation, his pinky sliding across hers and hooking around it. Nothing more, just that little bit of contact, and she's not sure how or why, but it unscrews something wound tight inside her, chinks at her carefully constructed armor, and all of a sudden her breath is shuddering out roughly, and there are tears spilling silently from her eyes.

It is horrifying, mortifying, and she rips her hand from his, lifts both of them to wipe furiously at the tears and bites at the inside of her cheek until she tastes the salty copper of blood.

"Leave," she sneers at him, trying to put enough fury into her voice to overpower the sorrow. She's only marginally successful, and it all sounds far too rough and tearful for her liking.

"I'm fine here," he says casually with a shake of his head, and he is looking out at the sunset again, as if she isn't sitting next to him sniffling and crying and generally making a fool of herself.

He is infuriating.

And also merciful.

He says nothing about her tears, just keeps surveying the vista before him as she tries to tamp them down, and after a minute of heaving breaths and sniffling, she manages. When she thinks her voice will be steady again, she asks - demands, "Why are you here? Did Snow send you?"

Although why she would send him of all people, Regina has no idea. She thinks back to the princess musing on how good looking the outlaw is, the day they'd first hitched their parties together, and hopes this isn't some horrible attempt at a fix up. If it is, she may kill the simpering little bitch for her inappropriate timing alone.

"I've been sent by no one," he assures her. "The princess merely mentioned that today is your lad's birthday, and I thought perhaps you could use some company," he tells her simply, plain as day, as if sharing each others' company is something they ever do willingly.

"I don't want company," she bites, and his retort is instant, and kind, and familiar: _That doesn't mean you won't need it_. Regina rolls her eyes so hard it actually hurts, but she finds she doesn't truly mind his presence as much as she thinks she should. And for the first time in however long she's been sitting here (long enough for her ass to go tingly and numb), she is not shackled into her own brain - not completely anyway. Henry's face still swims in front of her, smiling, happy, without her, always, forever, until the end of time without her, but for a moment she'd been more wrapped up in ridding herself of the thief than in thoughts of her son.

Regina's chest squeezes painfully, and she has the sudden urge to just get blind, stinking drunk. Isn't that how normal people deal with their problems? People whose first urge in the face of grief isn't to slaughter preteen girls, and the thousands of people who stand in between them? She looks at the thief, imagines he's spent many a night carousing drunkenly around a campfire, and wishes that if he insisted on coming here to bother her under the guise of helping, he could have at least been kind enough to bring her something with which she could drown her sorrows.

"What I _need_ is something to quiet my mind for a spell," she tells him, a rare parcel of honesty to be doled out, but at least she does it with a sneer. It's a weary one, not quite up to her usual level of ire, but she's bogged down with this cloud of misery, so it's the best she can muster tonight. For good measure, she gives him a scathing up-and-down perusal, and grumbles, "If you're so insistent on sharing my misery, you could've at least brought wine."

Robin smirks, shakes his head, and smiles at her. "I find alcohol isn't all that kind to me when I'm weighted by grief. After my wife passed, I took to drinking. Especially on the hard days. But I'm afraid I'm not the most pleasant of depressed drunks, and it doesn't do a thief much good to be hungover. Doesn't do a father much good either."

She thinks of his boy, of Roland's dark hair and deep dimples, and his cheerful little laugh - and then she thinks of her own son and the tears well up again, hot and traitorous. He really should've brought that wine.

"Well, I'm neither a thief, nor a father," she points out. Robin continues speaking as if she's said nothing.

"Little John introduced me to an alternative, something gentler. A bit more pleasant."

Regina blinks, wipes at the tear it dislodges, and frowns at him. "An alternative," she repeats, doubtfully (although inside, she's hopeful. She'd take anything to dull this pain right now.)

The thief nods, and fishes into his pocket, pulls out something slim and white, and when he lays his palm flat it sits there, and Regina just stares at it for a moment. It's a joint. A slim, hand-rolled cigarette, and is he offering her pot? Regina looks up, meets his gaze, one brow lifted incredulously. "What...?"

"Rookweed," he supplies, and no, it's not marijuana, because that's not of this land, but she imagines it's the closest equivalent, especially when he adds, "Dulls the brain a bit, helps get rid of those pesky painful thoughts."

"And you're just carrying it around with you?" she questions, wondering if he's the Enchanted Forest equivalent of a stoner, if he spends his nights by the fire getting baked and giggling with his Merry Men while his boy sleeps. Irresponsible, she thinks. Unattractive.

But then he tells her it's not something he makes a habit of, but, "I didn't happen upon you by accident, my queen - and a flagon of wine might have been suspicious as I traversed the castle, no?"

"I suppose," she reasons, although there's no reason he couldn't have filled a wineskin, or hell, just carted a bottle. This was a castle, not a convent.

He shifts the joint from his palm to his fingertips, holding in out in offering. "If a quiet mind is what you're after, milady, this will do the trick with little trouble, and afford you a few hours' dreamless sleep on top of it."

Regina eyes it warily, and then reminds herself that such things are perfectly legal here. It's not an illicit substance, but a folk cure. Something common, something she might get from a healer in a land without Prozac or Xanax, and hell, why not? If it will soothe this terrible ache in her chest, why shouldn't she? So she meets the thief's eyes, and thinks this is probably not one of her wiser decisions (although certainly quite low on the list of things she's done wrong), and shrugs agreeably.

Her acquiescence draws another grin out of him, and she thinks that Snow wasn't entirely wrong about him being attractive. He has a very nice smile, she has to admit that. Inviting, she thinks. That's the word for it.

"A bit of flame, if you would, majesty," he requests, and Regina smirks. He comes with the plant, but without a light. Of course he does.

"If we're going to be getting stoned together, Robin, I think it may be time for you to call me by name."

He chuckles, and it's a warm, pleasant sound, she thinks, when she's not so determined to be irritated by him. "My pleasure, Regina," and she likes the sound of that, too.

She produces a fireball in her palm, and he leans back a little bit, away, looking at her as if she's crazy if she thinks he's putting his face anywhere near that for the second it takes her to focus the flames down to a small flicker.

"I have no interest in scorching off that pretty face," she assures, lifting the flame up toward it. She realizes what she's said when that permanent smirk on his lips turns into another broad grin, his hand pausing in its rise to his mouth.

"I'm pretty, am I?" he taunts, and to her horror, Regina feels her cheeks heat with a blush.

She tries to scowl at him as he leans forward, the joint between his lips now as he brings it to the tiny flame, but his cheeks hollow out a little on the inhale, and she finds her attention pulled away by his jaw, the stubble there, the column of his throat and yes, he is pretty - handsome, rather, distractingly so - she has the sudden urge to plant a kiss on that rough skin, feel the scrape of his whiskers beneath her tongue. That blush on her cheeks flares hotter, and she hopes the night is dim enough to hide it, and forgets to be angry as she watches him lean back slightly as he inhales, pulls the cigarette from his lips, chest expanding broadly before a cloud of thick, white smoke blows from his mouth. It smells sweeter than she expected, fragrant and pleasant as it dissipates around them.

He offers the joint to her with a pleasant frown, a raise of his brows, and she cannot believe she's doing this, but she takes it, brings it to her lips, and draws on it. Hot smoke fills her mouth, sucks down into her lungs, and it burns a little, but not unpleasantly so. The smoke is smooth, but still catches in her throat as she breathes out, and she coughs lightly. She eyes him sheepishly, but he simply shrugs and says, "Virgin lungs," as if there's not a drop of shame in her toking like an amateur.

She tries to pass it back to him, but Robin shakes his head, gestures toward her again. "Take another pull," he urges. "You need it more than I."

He's right about that, she thinks, and so she does, inhales slowly and deeply, and when her lungs are packed full he reaches for the cigarette and urges her to hold the smoke for few moments. She holds her breath for a beat, two, three, four, then exhales slowly. She doesn't cough this time, and the smirk she gives him is smug and self-satisfied.

He takes another puff, but it's noticeably shallow, just a quick drag. He's saving the bulk of it for her, she observes, and as her head starts to feel a bit like a floating balloon, she finds she's grateful for the consideration.

They exhaust the joint quickly, Robin dropping it to the ground and stubbing it out with his boot when the embers begin to lick at his fingertips. _Lucky embers_, she thinks vaguely, and she wonders if the weed is an aphrodisiac, can't remember, and in any case, it's not as though she's never had a single traitorous erotic thought about the man sitting next to her.

"How's your mind?" he asks, and she finds that it's a bit disconnected, that her first thought is to answer _wondering how you'd taste_, and so she knows that it must be working, but she is still bound down to the reality of her pain. She still feels that oppressive sadness that she hasn't been able to shake since the moment she realized what she'd have to do to save them all from Pan's curse. What she'd have to give up.

She tells him so, in not so many words, and his hopeful expression dulls into a frown. "If you need a bit more, I've plenty, but I am, unfortunately, out of paper to wrap it in." She's thinking about how easy it would be to conjure some, wishing she'd known to take better note of the texture of the paper, the thickness, of it, when he points to the tree above them and asks, "May I?"

Regina quirks one amused brow. "Someone have a touch of the munchies?" she teases, and Robin just looks at her curiously as he stands - it's clearly not a term he's familiar with, a remnant of Storybrooke in her speech.

Robin's fingers are gripping the bottom of one plump, red apple, and he looks at her questioningly - Regina realizes she never answered his request, and nods gamely. What's one apple in a tree hanging heavy with dozens more? When he follows up plucking the apple with yanking free a thin branch from a limb nearby, though, she scowls. She hadn't granted permission for that.

"I said you could have an apple, not destroy my tree," she gripes.

"Apologies, milady, but it's necessary for the task," he explains, and Regina's scowl deepens. What task? Robin twists the stem from the apple easily, then stabs the stick straight into the top of it, wiggling it around a little to create a slim channel. Her brow knits together in confusion, watching as he scrapes a bit around the mouth of the hole, makes it a little wider, and then he's plunging the stick into the apple's side, clearing a small tunnel there as well, juice dripping down his fingers. He tosses the stick away and brings the apple to his lips, blows hard into the hole in the top until some pulpy bits of apple fly out the other hole into his hand, and my god, he just made a pipe from an apple, she realizes.

Regina's forehead smooths, then her brow lifts, her expression some cross between impressed, amused, and doubtful. "That seems to be a practiced maneuver," she remarks, and he's smirking again.

"The plant grows freely, milady, as do the apples, but the papers come at a price." He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small cloth bag, no bigger than his boy's palm, she thinks, and he works a few fingers into it, pulls out a bit of dried plant, plugging the hole in the top of the apple. "One has to be creative when one doesn't have a vault of gold at their fingertips."

Regina smirks, creative indeed, she thinks, but now he's frowning, saying something about how he should have brought matches. No need, Regina thinks, reaching down and nabbing the stick he'd used to bore the holes into the apple. She conjures a flame in her palm and holds the stick in it until it lights - the wood is still very much alive, so it smokes and sputters. Not the best light, but there's a flame there, steady enough, and she can always light it again. She passes it to him with a smile, soft and pleasant, and she realizes suddenly that she's been smiling for nearly a minute now, can't quite help herself, and that clinging sadness still lingers but she can feel her head lifting above it slightly.

Robin takes the stick with a grateful nod, then brings the apple to his mouth, seals his lips over the hole in the side, and dips the lit end toward the packed hole on top. His eyes nearly go cross-eyed as they linger on the flame, and Regina watches the plant burn red, then go grey and charred where the flame had touched it when he draws the fruit away from his mouth. A tendril of smoke curls lazily from the side hole and Robin lets his eyes close for a moment, then releases a generous cloud of smoke from his lungs.

Not being so conservative now, she notices. He passes the apple to her, and she eyes it a bit warily as she takes it. The joint had been fairly straightforward, but this?

Robin seems to sense her hesitation and lifts it toward her mouth, guiding her. "Just cover the hole with your mouth, and inhale - gently - when I tell you to." Regina nods, and seals her lips around the fruit, and maybe if she hadn't been watching him so carefully, she'd have missed the way his gaze flicked to her lips, the way his Adam's apple bobbed with a heavy swallow. But she was looking, so she does see, and the thought that he might find her as distracting as she finds him almost makes her smile. Almost, but then he's dipping the flame to the apple again, and telling her to inhale, and she does, the smoke somehow hotter this time, still sweet, a hint of burnt apples and ash, and she fills her lungs up again, then closes her lips and hands the apple back to him.

Not so hard after all, she thinks, and she has to relight the stick before Robin can draw another pull.

And then she really starts to feel it. The high hits her slowly, expands under her skin as she takes another hit, and soon she feels pleasantly... pleasant. That's the best word for it, really. Pleasant. Her breathing goes slow and even, and everything feels a bit soft-focused. She is fully herself, and fully aware, but also feels a bit like her eyes are windowpanes set a few inches in front of her, like she's detached from the whole scene. Observing. And yet not. Every breath she breathes in feels cool and crisp, refreshing, and her skin feels flushed but in a good way. Her fingers feel creaky, tense, so she flexes them out and back in a few times, a new awareness of her muscles.

He's right, she thinks vaguely. This is better than wine.

Regina lets out a contented sigh, wishing the bench she's sitting on had a back she could lean against. She blinks, slowly, and Robin's low, warm chuckle slithers over her skin like velvet.

"There she is," he murmurs, and she turns to him with a lazy smile and he is smiling back at her, and Regina's not sure why but she lets out a little snicker of her own.

And her mind, finally, is blessedly quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's note: I lied to you (or, more accurately, I got a bit long-winded and changed my chapter break). This part is still rated T, but the next part... less so.**_

* * *

He can see the minute it settles over her - she's had a light buzz since they started, but it isn't until she takes that second pull from the apple that the full effects of the plant hit her, and Robin watches her go loose and languid, that straight spine slouching a little, her eyes going heavy-lidded.

She's been breathing steadily since they got here, intentionally almost, in and then out, like it takes effort, but now the air seems to float in and out of her, deeply, freely.

When she blinks hazily, he knows he was right to come here. She needed this, this respite from her suffering. She's smiling, pleasantly, something he has heretofore only seen her do with Roland, and even then it always seemed forced and steeped in sadness. But now the curve of her lips appears to come easily, naturally, and it does something to her face that hits him hard right in the gut. She was beautiful before, but she is pretty now, looks somehow younger, somehow sweet.

He thinks perhaps it is the first time he has truly seen Regina under the mask of The Evil Queen, and in his smoke-addled state (because he is not unaffected, not by any means, just more practiced than her at this pleasantly altered feeling), he cannot resist commenting on it. "There she is," he says quietly, smiling, and she turns that charming smile in his direction, and giggles a little for no reason, then turns her head away, looking out, chin tipping up slightly, and she says something about the stars, something about beautiful, her speech low and without its usual bite, but he's not listening, too busy thinking about how badly he'd like to kiss his way along the column of her throat, taste all that soft, pale skin, make her gasp for him. He watches as she presses her lips together, then releases them with a quiet pop, and then all he can think about is kissing her there, too, and maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all. Not if this hazy, relaxed feeling is going to lead his mind down those particular paths.

So he tips his head back as well, looks up and away from her, at the branches looming above them. They're dark, the leaves almost black against the indigo sky, the pattern mesmerizing for a moment, and he almost forgets why he's looking at them, almost loses himself. And then he remembers. "So tell me about this tree." It seems a safe enough topic to keep his libido in check. "I hear it's traveled realms with you."

She hums a confirmation, another helpless chuckle spilling from her before says, "It grew on our estate when I was a girl, and I had it brought here when I wed the king."

She says those last two words a bit dramatically, her eyes widening, a glint of something - humor or malice, he's not quite sure, it reminds him for just a moment of the way she'd looked at him as she told him she was going to destroy her sister. Manic. But it's just a flash, playful, he thinks, and it fades back into that hazy lead-lidded smile the high has settled on her features.

Her fingers are restless, wandering, tracing slow, swirling patterns on the thin strip of stone between them, over the soft material of her own dress. She skims over his thigh once, absently, and Robin swallows hard. Does she even realize what she's doing? He thinks she doesn't, thinks she probably just likes the feel of everything under her fingertips, the rookweed making everything seem heightened and dulled at the same time. He'd once spent nearly an hour turning the same leaf over and over in his hands as he conversed with Little John, one side smooth and glossy, the other rougher, ridged. He remembers thinking that it felt good, and not thinking much else. Still, when she skims her hand up again, higher, higher, not careening off his thigh until she's drawn it almost to the waist and has him sucking in a quick lungful of air through his nose, he wonders if she might have an inkling of the effect she's having.

Her lips are curved, something impish in her smile.

He needs to draw them back into safer territory again, he thinks. He has honor to maintain, and he'd like to keep all his limbs.

"Fond of apples, then?" he asks her, and she regards him blankly for a moment, like she's forgotten what they were talking about. He flicks his up pointedly to the tree, then back at her.

Recognition blooms on her face, drawing a pleasant laugh with it (he likes her this way, he thinks, unguarded and in good spirits). "No," she says, shaking her head, but then she frowns, almost a pout and nods, conceding, "Well, yes, but mostly I wasn't fond of marrying the king, moving to this godforsaken place, leaving my home, leaving... everything." The words ramble out of her, lazily but freely, and then she shrugs, and there's a bit of sadness to it, and he regrets for a moment leading her down this path if it is going to dampen her mood. She shifts, leaning toward him unexpectedly, until her shoulder is flush against his, her weight (not that there's much of it) pressed into his side. Her head drops to his shoulder, neck craning up to look at the tree as she speaks. He can still see her face, but barely, not quite fully. She smells like rookweed smoke and whatever rich oils she slathers herself with every day. Like a regal campfire, he thinks, and then he thinks that's silly, and then he remembers he's high.

"Leopold told me I could bring anything I desired with me to my new home, and I told him I'd very much like to keep the tree - an impossible request, I was certain. But he surprised me." She's smiling again, almost fondly, and Robin is fairly certain he's been told she killed her husband to assume his throne, so it's an odd sight to see, her regarding her dead husband with affection. "He had it dug up, and carefully so," her fingertip falls to his thigh, just above his knee, and the way it digs in might be painful if he was rightheaded, "Ordered his men not to harm one," she thumps it against him, "single," again, "root," again, like punctuation, like she's the one giving orders, "and replanted it here. It was the kindest thing he ever did for me."

And there it is, the hint of bitterness, the brittle dimming of her smile. That's more like it, he thinks. More what he'd expected.

"I've heard tell he was a kind man," Robin says carefully, aware he may be picking at old scabs.

Regina snorts out a laugh, unladylike, her head lolling slightly against his shoulder before she shakes it lazily. Still smiling, ever smiling, almost giddily. "I suppose he was," she sighs, the tail end of her laugh, and then she snorts again and says casually, "I still killed him," as if that's not a horrible thing to do. As if she'd simply set a horse to pasture, not struck down a royal in his own castle.

But she's done many horrible things, he knows, and yet he's drawn to her, to the woman underneath the bloody hands, and so he asks her another question he probably shouldn't, but keeps his voice light and friendly: "And why'd you do that?"

That brilliant, shimmering smile dims, gutters out, and he regrets asking immediately. "He never loved me," she confesses, the words floating from her lips almost dreamily, but a sad sort of dream. "I tried... but he never loved me, and he never let anyone else love me either. I was sure I'd die here... waste away into nothing... unloved and alone..." A painfully sad sort of dream, he amends, and it is leaking from her like steam, this sadness, and he wonders what loneliness she must have lived through, a loveless marriage, a cold castle. Was it enough to justify murder? No, he thinks, but for her it was, and it seems he's already chosen to overlook her checkered past, so he tells himself her killing the king was an act of self preservation, and something he shouldn't hold against her.

And then she shifts restlessly against him, her shoulder digging into his bicep hard enough for him to wince as she repositions herself slightly. And then she's giggling again, breathlessly, and she confesses like it's nothing, "And I wanted to kill Snow, and he'd never have stood for that. Had to be rid of him." Her head spins round toward him suddenly, and he hopes his face does not look disapproving, because he likes her like this, all up against him. She grins, bright white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, and says, "And he was horrible in the sack," with an exaggerated wink.

Robin can't help it; he laughs at her. And then she's laughing too, a fit of helpless snickering from both of them, and Robin ducks his head down until his nose is in her hair and uses her moment of utterly not caring about anything to take a deep whiff of her when it will go unnoticed. God, she smells good.

"And you brought it with you to the other realm? The tree?" he asks, leading her away from King Leopold, away from her marriage, hopefully toward happier times.

Her gaze slides away from him then, and her smile is smug and pleased. "Child's play compared to dragging it across the forest," she assures. "I wanted a bit of home."

"And was home a happy place?" Surely it must have been if she hadn't wanted to leave it for a life of luxury.

Her smile stays on her face, placid and serene, so it surprises him when she says, "No," snorting an indecorous laugh, and then, "My mother was a real bitch," her words darkening, then growing sentimental again when she added, "But I loved her anyway."

"Even at their worst, it seems our parents still hold sway over us, don't they?" he sympathizes, thinking of his own greedy father, how he'd loathed him in life, but still mourned him in passing.

Regina nods slowly, lazily.

Her skin is glowing, he thinks absently, the moonlight bouncing off it and making her look almost blue, ethereal, unreal, like she should be a statue carved in a castle somewhere, something marble and ornate. She looks like magic made flesh. Alluring.

"Can we talk about something else? Or maybe not talk?" she asks, pushing off of his shoulder, and sitting back up. It's a request he is more than willing to grant her - he's not doing very well at keeping her mind clear of troubled thoughts.

"Of course, milady. We can just sit here and enjoy the quiet evening if you'd like."

"That's not what I'd like," she tells him, with just enough intent that he thinks perhaps she's coming on to him. And then she swipes her tongue across her top lip, almost casually but certainly intentionally, and he can damn near feel the way her eyes sweep down his body and back up, until she meets his gaze again, her own bright and steady. Robin's brows creep up slowly. She is definitely coming on to him.

"Regina..." he says cautiously, not sure if he wants to encourage or discourage her. "If your intentions are as they appear, I fear I might be seen as a bit of a cad for taking you up on them, seeing as how you're not quite yourself at the moment."

One of her brows lifts, the way it usually does when she eyes him with disdain, but she's still smirking, so it carries no heat. "Do you know why you irritate me so much, thief?" She bites the moniker out, teeth digging into her bottom lip before letting it go. That lone fingertip has jabbed into his thigh again. Hard enough he almost winces.

He's cocked this whole thing up now, he thinks. Should've never opened his mouth once she was feeling the kind effects of the rookweed. "Why is that, milady?"

"Because..." She heaves a breath, and looks out at the darkened forest surrounding them. "You... are annoyingly handsome." Robin blinks, surprised. That wasn't what he'd expected her to say. "And persistent, in a way that I find nearly as attractive as I do exasperating. You're a good father, which I find oddly... sexy - really, painfully so. I see you with Roland sometimes, and it... does things to me that it shouldn't. And you don't run from me. You don't back down, even when I am horrible and rude and cruel. I respect that."

And perhaps that's the most shocking confession of all - that he has her _respect_. Robin gulps. Handsome, attractive, sexy, and respected - not things he'd ever imagined the queen would say about him, and certainly not when he'd approached her today. Robin's a bit at a loss, not sure how to respond to her, not sure how much of what she's saying is even true, but before the silence stretches too much further between them, she continues her little monologue of surprises, "I want you," she pauses for effect, then adds his title deliberately, grinning through her forced ire, "Robin of Locksley, and it irritates me, because I'm sad, and nothing can change that, not without Henry," She's rambling again, words tumbling off her tongue a bit unsteadily, "I wouldn't make very good company on a regular basis, I assure you. So. This wanting you... it irritates me, and so you irritate me. Get under my skin, and grate on my very last nerve, every single time you're near me." She's leaning closer again, and he's not sure if she means to, or if its just gravity pulling them closer, just her body listing in his direction. Either way, it's not helping his resolve. "So trust me when I tell you that if you were to bed me right now, I would be very much myself, and the only thing you'd be taking advantage of is my drug-addled willingness to share all of this with you."

Oh. Well. Oh.

Robin is well aware that he can be charming, that he can woo a lady well when he so desires, and truth be told, right now he desires quite a lot, but he's unsure as to how to proceed with her. _Regina_ is sitting there before him, high on rookweed, smirking, with bedroom eyes, and a body that seems to be tilted toward him slightly, displayed for his perusal even though she's far more buttoned up than usual, and everything she's saying seems almost too good to be true. He thinks for a hazy moment that perhaps this is one of his all-too-frequent dreams of her, that he'll wake up frustrated and alone in his own bed.

"Well," she chuckles darkly when he has yet to respond, "It looks like I finally got the best of you."

Her tongue peeks out to wet those full lips again, slipping along her smug, triumphant smirk, and it's the last straw for Robin, rips away the last bit of his control, and he surges forward and crushes his mouth against hers. She makes a small sound of surprise, but hesitates not a moment in kissing him back, and Robin lifts a hand to cup the back of her neck and hold her to him.

When her mouth parts eagerly under his, that teasing tongue flicking against his own, she tastes sweet and smoky, and Robin sinks into her, thinks to himself that if this misdeed gets him turned into some manner of crawling beast or pilloried in the courtyard for his lecherous treachery, it might all be worth it.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's note: Here be porn. Rating changed.**_

* * *

Regina is dizzy, pleasantly so. She cannot shake that word - pleasant - and nothing has ever been so pleasant as Robin's mouth over hers, his tongue sliding against her own. He tastes like ash, like the last guttered pull of rookweed from their makeshift pipe, but she finds she doesn't mind the flavor one bit.

She feels golden, the air sparkling in her lungs, and his hand is warm and steady on her neck, and when it squeezes slightly she pushes back against it, lets her head fall back into the cradle of his fingers, and he's on her throat with a hungry groan that goes straight between her thighs. He _wants_ her, she thinks with a little thrill. Not five minutes ago she was talking casually about her murderous history and he is entirely undeterred and his teeth are scraping lightly over her pulse and she grips her fingers into his shirt and she feels golden.

She wants his throat, too, wants to feel that stubble under her tongue so she pushes his head up and leans in for a taste. She feasts on his skin, lips and tongue, and he tastes like salt and groans like she's already got him balls-deep inside her and now that's all she wants, him and her, naked and sweaty, and not a single care in the world. She wants to fuck him right underneath this apple tree and let the whole world see for all she cares. She thinks of poor scandalized Snow, of the shocked look she'd wear if she happened across them, and Regina breaks away from his skin with a burst of giggles. Her nose falling to his shoulder, her hands fisting around his vest.

He's laughing with her, surely has no idea why, and when he tips her face up all she can see is his, so beautiful, god, how does she ever manage to get anything done when he's around? She'd known she was attracted to him, had been trying to ignore it, but this, this wanting is fierce, all-consuming, she _needs_ him right now.

"Are you sure about this, Regina?" he asks her, he still has enough of his wits to be a gentleman, and she sucks her bottom lip into her teeth and nods and says _yes_, and she's certain, and then he's kissing her again.

She feels like she is unwinding, like she's been mummified, living in darkness, shackled down, straightjacketed for so many years by grief and vengeance and darkness and this, right here, right now, this is simple. She's going to have sex with Robin Hood, and not because she's duty-bound, or because she employs him, or owns him, or scares him, but just because she is herself and he wants her, and she wants him. It's so simple, so unbridled, so far from anything she's ever had, she's never been taken to bed by a man simply because he wanted her.

The realization slams into her like a wrecking ball, knocks the breath out of her, and for a second she wants to cry, because it's so cruel, so unfair, that she's lived this many years and never been wanted, not since Daniel and that had barely had a chance to begin before he was taken from her, they'd never progressed past the wanting to the taking, and she tears her mouth from Robin's and looks at him. His eyes blink open, a little dazed, the blue darker than she remembers and is it the moonlight or the making out, she's not sure. Regina doesn't know what he sees on her face, but it must be something because his brows draw together in concern, and the hand he'd had tangled in her hair shifts so his thumb can caress the corner of her jaw, gently.

"Second thoughts?" he asks her, and she shakes her head. No, that's not it, she's not having second thoughts.

But she wonders if he might be, and while she has no desire to end this, doesn't want to afford him a second chance to back away, there's something stuck on her tongue, swirling through her off-kilter mind, and what she means to do is echo his question, ask him _Are __you__ sure you want this?_ but what comes out is "Are you sure you want me?"

His head tilts slightly, and he smiles at her, breathes out a chuckle like she's a being a dope, and then he says her name again, _Regina_, that way he says her name, and his hands are moving, skimming down from her hair, down her neck, across her collarbones, and off her shoulders, and the feel of it in this rookweed haze, the slow drag of his fingers over her skin, makes her draw in a deep breath, drop her head back and just revel. She forgets her moment of self-doubt, forgets everything, and then he is kissing her neck, small, barely-open-mouthed kisses, dotting up her throat, and he nips at her chin, nudges it down with his nose until she is looking at him again, and he says to her, "I have wanted you for quite some time now." His smile spreads, and he teases her, "Would I be so attractively persistent if I didn't?"

The grin splits her face instantly, unbidden, and she's snickering again, and leaning her face forward, into his, until their foreheads bump, noses brushing and she's still laughing when she mocks, "How dare you use my own words against me," and _Oh, how dare I_, he teases right back, and then they're kissing, and it's less urgent than before, but no less heady. Just lips, and tongues, and breath, and it's good, easy, and his teeth scrape her lip and she wants him to do it again, wants him to do everything again, her body feels so... it all feels...

His hands are moving, and they're veering away from the safe places they've been occupying, abandoning her hair, her neck, her arms, and finding her belly, her hips, one skims up and gropes eagerly at her breast, and she moans, can't help herself, and they're still sitting side-by-side, twisting and craning to get at each other's mouths, and this is ridiculous when she could just be on top of him. She moves to make it so, tries to climb over into his lap, but she kneels on her own skirts, isn't used to this particular maneuver in a dress like this, but Robin, oh, Robin has spent years in this forest, no doubt cavorting with any number of ladies in unsavory establishments, and he simply reaches over and scoops her skirt up with one hand, hooks it behind her far knee and tugs her over him like she's a rag doll. He barely breaks the kiss as she settles straddled on top of him, knees and shins against the hard stone underneath them, his hands gathering her skirts up until they're free and puddled around their hips.

And now, with her on his lap, he pulls away enough to peruse her hungrily, bands his arms around her torso and pulls her up so he can kiss over her chest. She should've worn something more low-cut, she thinks. She hadn't planned on wanting access to her cleavage as she sat in her solitude and mourning. Henry crosses her mind with a pang of sadness again, but no, she's not supposed to be thinking about that, she's supposed to be thinking about anything else, so she tugs his head back and kisses his mouth again, and his hands are cupping her chest again, and this is better, this is good.

Except the stone is digging into the skin of her shins, the bench not quite deep enough for her to span it fully. The edges hit just above her ankles, just below her kneecap, and it is uncomfortable. Even more so, when she rocks enough to grind her hips down against the hardness she can feel in his pants. Robin groans, and moves a hand to her hip to urge her on.

"Why don't we - take this - somewhere - more private," she manages between kisses, and he nips that lower lip again, tugs it lightly with his teeth and she needs his mouth in other places. All the other places. Regina is dizzy, she is golden.

He groans, a disappointed sound, and she frowns down at him. What the hell can possibly be wrong with a request to move things to the bedroom?

"If it means I have to stop touching you long enough to walk to one of our chambers, I'm loathe to relocate..." he says, nearly pouting at the idea and Regina shakes her head at him. So silly, thinking they'd actually have to _move_ in order to go somewhere else.

"Robin," she says, moving back until her feet are on the ground (if she stumbles a little, it's because she's climbing backward off him and not because her brain is buzzing pleasantly, that's what she tells herself) and tugging him up with her, pulling his arms around her waist. His body bumps against hers just in time for her to whisper conspiratorially, "I have magic."

And then it's all purple smoke.

They land in her chambers, but barely, they're inches from the edge of her balcony, and Regina can't help a chortle. Half a foot further from her target (which was a good several feet closer to the bed than where they are right now - perhaps attempting this sort of magic while not entirely in her right mind is unwise), and they'd have landed in midair. "Oops," she snorts, gripping his sleeves in her fists, and he eyes the railing curiously.

"A bit close, Your Majesty," he teases, and she shakes her head and tells him _Regina_, and he nods, repeats, "Regina," and she likes the way it sounds coming from him. Her name. It sounds good. Right. She wants him to say it more.

And she's telling him, "My aim is a bit off," as he backs her against the rail, his palms gripping it on either side of her. She is trapped and pleasantly so.

"Is this sturdy?" he asks, and she nods, and then he is pressed firmly against her, flush from chest to thigh, the rail digging into her hips as he kisses her fiercely.

There's a breeze tonight, stronger up here, and they're exposed enough that it makes her skirt flutter against her legs, tosses her long, loose hair around them, chills her skin pleasantly. And when he abandons her mouth and starts to suck warm kisses down her neck again, the breeze hits the damp trail he leaves behind, and she shivers, tips her head back, it all feels so good. Already, she feels so _good_.

He pushes at her coat, and she shimmies her shoulders, it drops to her elbows, down off her wrists and she lets it fall, lets it slip free and sail down, down, down on the wind, forgotten, landing yards below them in the courtyard. Her head is still dropped back, his mouth at her collar now, nipping gently before his tongue swirls in the hollow there, and she blinks her eyes open, and all she can see is sky. The glowing silver spires of her castle rise high into the bottom of her vision, dizzying, and beyond that nothing but inky darkness and stars, and her skirts flutter against her legs, her hair tossed by the breeze that skims her face, and it feels like she is flying. Like she is free. Finally, God, finally free as she has always wished to be. Not a thought in her head, nothing to her but skin and cotton and his mouth on her throat again, his hands on her hips, anchoring her to the rail, and she thinks she wants to stay here, right here, like this, forever. In this one, perfect moment, just Regina and the sky, and Robin's mouth on her skin.

Then, one of his hands tugs at the collar of her dress, tries to draw it down as he mouths his way down her chest. It doesn't give, not much and Robin growls his frustration against her skin. "I need more of you," he rumbles against her, and Regina bites her lip and gropes for the zipper of her dress, under her arm, Robin's hand following hers, nudging it away and grasping the zipper pull himself. He starts to draw it down and then the dress tugs stubbornly, his progress halted, and he scowls, takes his mouth from her skin and peers at her side, yanks again. "It's stuck."

He tugs again, and for a moment she wants to tell him to rip it, to rend the whole garment with his hands, but she does like this dress, and she thinks she might like the idea of wearing it another day and thinking of this (hopes that when she's come down from this high that the thought of it won't make her frown), so instead she just smirks, flicks her hand, and they're swirling in purple again, and then she's bare before him, not a stitch of clothing on her, wind whipping over her naked skin, raising goosebumps. She feels each one prickle up - even that is pleasant, she thinks - and the way he's looking at her now, that's good too.

His jaw has dropped open slightly, and he brings one palm up to cup her bare breast, his fingers chilly against her warm skin.

"That'll do," he tells her, a little dumbstruck, and maybe it's the look on his face or the heat in his voice or maybe it's just the rookweed, but she snickers again, proud of herself, satisfied that she can render him half-dumb with just her own bare skin. He has both of her breasts in his hands now, and thumbs tracing light circles over her nipples, teasing, the sensation mild but spiraling through her nonetheless, and Regina sighs and bites her lower lip and grips the railing near her hips.

He's watching her, gaze flicking all over her face, restless, dropping to her breasts every few seconds and then back up, and she's used to his scrutiny, he's always watching her, but there's something about it now, like this, that is different, that turns her on instead of irritating her, and she wants him to look, wants him to see, wants him to want her, and then he stops those teasing circles, grasps her nipples between thumbs and forefingers and starts giving them slow, firm tugs and twists, and Regina's jaw drops, her eyes falling shut, pleasure burning through her like sparklers, crawling down from her breasts to her belly and settling low, burning hot, all she wants to do is feel this.

Her head is swirling, her body alive, and she can feel the leather of Robin's vest press into her belly, can feel the hitch of his breathing, his voice almost otherworldy when he tells her she's so beautiful, incredibly so, and she thinks this is like a dream, like a really, really good dream...

And then his hands fall away, slide down to her hips, and Regina blinks her eyes open with a frown - her really, really good dream wasn't supposed to end so soon - but all she sees in front of her is the expanse of her chambers, she has to look down to see Robin, on his knees, lifting one of her thighs to hook over his shoulder, and even from here she can see the hungry look on his face as he leans in and presses his tongue to her, and oh god, yes, there's that good dream again, and Regina shuts her eyes, tips her head back again and just feels.

She is flying, she is golden, he is really, really good with his tongue, or maybe it's the rookweed, maybe, she's doesn't know, everything feels more..._more_, the way his tongue drags against her sensitive clit has her thigh quivering, and she tightens her leg around him, and then his lips close and he's sucking at her, and someone is moaning, and it is definitely her, and oh god, this feels, and his hands are on her thighs, and hers move to grip his hair, and it's a really, really, really good dream and he does something, flicks his tongue against her just so, and her back arches, and for a second she's not flying, she's falling, off-balance, off-kilter, keeling backward, he's not anchoring her anymore, and she yelps, and grasps for the the rail, eyes popping open wide, and his hands are on her hips again, suddenly, gripping tightly, his mouth has left her.

Their eyes meet, both startled and wary, and then he grins, and she grins, and he drops his forehead to her belly, and she can hear him laughing, and her heart is pounding but she snickers too, and then he looks at her again, shakes his head and says, "Perhaps we should take this somewhere you're less at risk of falling to your death?"

"Might be good," she quips, and she helps him to his feet, but she wants to be kissing him again, wants to never stop feeling the way she's feeling right now, so she pulls him against her and devours his mouth, tastes herself on him and feels a little thrill at the thought, tugs blindly at his vest and his shirt and by the time they make it to the bed he's naked to the waist. Her head spins a little as they hit the mattress and he rolls her beneath him, and he goes straight for her breasts, cups one in his hand and sucks the nipple between his teeth with an appreciative moan, his other hand slides down, tucks itself between her thighs, and she opens for him eagerly, and he wastes no time, slides two fingers inside her and begins to pump, and he groans again at the feel of her, says something about her being wet, and she is, she knows she is, she wants to say something coherent, something seductive and teasing, but he's chosen that moment to press his palm against her clit, to move his hand harder, faster, against her and all she can do is moan and arch and it's not the rookweed, she thinks vaguely, he's just very, very good with his hands.

He switches to her other breast, and adds a third finger, and Regina is gripping the bedsheets in her fists, and then he nips her gently and she is gulping down pleasure, and one hand lifts to grasp his shoulder, feels the muscle shifting under her hand as he works her higher, higher, and she sees the canopy of her bed looming over her, and she has never let a man take her in this bed, with Leopold she always went to him, never wanted him here, always his bed, and with Graham she'd done all the taking and usually on the chaise, and Robin will be the first to pin her to the bed like this, one thigh over hers like an anchor as she starts to buck and twist against him, she's close, she needs more, she needs him to just shift a little, and then he does, he changes the angle and pushes his fingers into her harder, faster, and she's swamped with sensation, a cresting, crashing wave of pleasure, and she's not sure if she screams, but she's knows she's louder than is polite, but the doors are thick and her body is a live wire, and the pleasure is acute and sharp and glorious and she's coming, coming, and he's murmuring something to her, _That's it_, and _There you go_, and _God, you're a vision_, and he doesn't stop, and she's biting her lip and holding out, she can take more, she thinks, she can let him do this to her forever, but then she can't, it's too much, too sharp, too acute, and she is pushing at his hands and gasping for air, and he stills, slips his fingers out of her and into her hair and kisses her and kisses her, and she can finally relax again.

They stay like that, just lips and tongues, deep, slow kisses, and heavy breathing and his erection pressed into her hip through the pants he's still wearing - she should probably do something about that. She turns her head away, out of the kiss, but he just moves to her jaw, and she sighs, "That was nice."

And that stops him, he lifts his head, frowning. "Just nice? That sounded a fair bit better than 'nice,'" and Regina grins, and snorts a little laugh, and amends to _that was incredible_, and Robin looks satisfied then, smiles, his tongue peeking out to wet his lower lip before his teeth sink in there, grinning at her, smug, proud of himself, and he's always so smug, she thinks. She wants to wipe that smug smirk right off him, so she pushes her palm against his shoulder, drives her hips against him until he gets the picture and moves onto his back, pulling her with him until she's straddling him.

His hands grip her waist, and he's taking her in again, perusing every bare inch of her and his palms skate down to her knees and back up, down again. And then she spies something on his wrist, a dark patch, a lion crest tattoo, and suddenly she is laughing and laughing, breathless, he's her soulmate, the thief, with his nimble archer's fingers still wet from being inside her, and his smirk and that smile, it's been thirty-odd years and he has found her, and she knows in the clear light of day the revelation would send her running from him but right now it just makes this whole thing hotter and she pitches forward, and fists the pillows on either side of his head to hold herself up, and she is going to fuck him into the ground. Right through the bed into the floor and down and down into oblivion.

She's still laughing and he is smiling at her in bewilderment, and pushing her hair back from her face and asking her what's got her so tickled.

"Nothing," she gasps, crushing her mouth against his, and then telling him again, "Nothing," because he does not need to know, not ever, and she magics away the rest of his clothes and reaches between them, grabs his cock unceremoniously and angles it so she can sink down onto it. He lets out this sound, this primal collapse of air from his lungs, his mouth dropping open, blue eyes falling shut, she has caught him unprepared. His hand fists in the hair at her nape, and he is thick and full inside of her, fits her perfectly (surprise, surprise), and she starts to rock against him and gasps, moans, some erotic sound spilling from her lips, she can hear it and it must turn him on, it has to, because it turns _her_ on and he is moving his hips with hers now, and he's pinching her left nipple not altogether lightly and Regina feels golden, and like she is flying, and he is her soulmate and she wants this to last forever, this feeling, this freedom, this high.

He lets go of her hair and slides his hand down, forward, pressing against her shoulder until she's sitting upright on top of him. And then both his hands move to her hips again, grip there, and he drives his hips up into her, counterpoint to her own rocking rhythm, and he hits something incredible inside her, something that radiates out, ricochets through her body, that same thing that made her come so hard just moments ago, and she cries out and nods, nods, nods, bites her lip and lets it go, and says, "Don't stop, don't ever stop..."

* * *

Robin doesn't plan to.

She's a goddess, stunning, free, and driving him to madness. She feels like heaven around him, like sin, sweat gathering where her thighs hug against his hips, mixing with her wetness where she grinds down against him on each thrust - and god, she's so wet, so hot, so caught up in this, he almost can't look at her. She's raised her arms, tangled her hands in her own hair, that dark mass of it, piling it up off her neck as her back arches, her hips moving steadily, her mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, the very picture of wanton abandon, and he's done it to her. It's a carnal thrill, a lick of power that laps at him, stokes his own arousal, she is making these sounds, these overwhelmed little shouts of pleasure, and he is the one calling them out of her with each sharp rap of his hips against hers, and her breasts are bouncing with each thrust, and her belly clenches in a way that makes him want to run his tongue straight up the middle, and he makes the mistake of looking lower, down where he's pounding in and out of her steadily, and the sight of it, of her, of them, catapults him nearly to the edge, and she is not there with him yet, it is way too soon, and he's not some schoolboy, he won't spill early like an overeager lad.

Robin uses his grip on her hips to yank her up, and off him, and she cries out, bereft, and opens her eyes to glare at him even as he is shuffling himself down the bed, urging her up as he does.

"What the hell are you doing?" she gripes.

"I need a moment," he confesses, hoping the honesty will be appreciated instead of mocked. She doesn't disappoint, smirking proudly, and saying _oh_, and _if you must_, with a sort of false prim propriety that makes him snicker against her thigh as he finally gets her into position.

He wraps his arms around her thighs and urges her down to him, and she settles over his mouth, sighing contentedly when he gives her a generous lick, and then he thrusts his tongue into her and she hums a warm sound of encouragement, one hand tangling into his hair. He licks and laps and pushes his tongue as deep as he can, and listens to her breathing, the hitch of it, the cadence of her soft moans. It's not the heat and hollering she'd been driving him to the brink with moments before, but he can tell she likes it, that he's not disappointing her in the least, so he keeps it up until she is squirming and mewling, and his name falls from her, pleading. He shifts his mouth to where he knows she wants it, wraps it around that sensitive little bundle and sucks.

Her thighs tremble in his grip, her moan low and hot, and encouraging, and her hips are rocking again, or would be if he'd let them, and he thinks he can last now, last long enough to get her there, so he sucks harder, harder, again, again, until she's shouting and scrabbling at his hair and nearly there, and then he draws her away from him and she huffs, "Seriously?"

Robin chuckles at her, and taps her thigh, "Only for a moment, I swear it," and then, "Roll over," and she does, lands on her back grumpily, but he moves his body over hers, and lines up and slides in (she's tighter than before, on the edge, and this still won't last long - long enough to get the job done, he's confident, but not long).

Having him inside her again seems to mollify Regina. She's smirking, murmuring _that's more like it_, and winding her arms around his neck, pressing her hips up against his. Robin thrusts in once, twice, and she gasps, lightly, closes her eyes again, bites her lip, but he can tell it's not ideal for her. Not the lightning strikes of pleasure she was being rattled with before. He reaches for her thigh, hikes it up along his ribs and pushes in again, hitting her deeper, her gasp more genuine, her head tipping back, grinding into the pillows.

Better.

She moves the other leg on her own, draws it up, locks her ankles behind him, and Robin moves again, gleans an encouraging nod from her. "Good?" he asks her, giving her another testing thrust, another, one more, and Regina bobs her head again and breathes, _mm, just like that_, and he obliges, settling into a steady rhythm.

He'd thought it would be easier this way, when he couldn't see her entire glorious body writhing on top of him, but now he's got her every pleasured sound right in his ear, her nails biting bluntly into his shoulder, her smell all around him, and maybe it is easier, but not by much. He can feel his release churning again, but she is clutching at him, and he can't stop watching her face so he sees the way it is screwing up with rising ecstasy - she's close, he won't have to last much longer. Robin reaches down and adjusts her hip, changes his angle slightly, until he is grinding harder against her on every push in, and Regina snaps her head back and cries out, and the sight is unbearably erotic, so he drops his head toward her neck, until he can't see her face anymore, and he murmurs to her, "You are a marvel," and she's grappling at his shoulders, "Stunning," he pants against her ear, and she moans almost desperately, breathes something that sounds almost like _tell me_, and so he does, pushes into her and says, _beautiful_ and _wonderful_, and _amazing_, and each word is tighter, strangled, delivered with a fierce push into her clutching, wet heat, and they all seem to drive her higher, further, and when he groans her name she comes apart underneath him, and she makes these _noises_, and he throbs, and grits his teeth so hard he thinks they'll crack, and her body is taut and bucking beneath him, one heel kicking into the back of his thigh and he forces himself to hold back, to keep control for another thrust, another, one more, driving as much pleasure into her body as he can stand, and when he cannot hold back one second longer, he rips himself out of her heat and angles just above, grips his cock and pumps once, twice, and spills onto her belly with a groan of relief.

Her shaking fingers join his, a moment or two after they would actually be helpful, and a second before he collapses down against her, breath heaving, skin slick with sweat, his hand and hers trapped beneath them in the slippery puddle he'd spent over her belly. Regina lets out a satisfied moan, and then chuckles and says, "I have no idea if I'm still high."

Robin laughs a little and uses what strength is left in his trembling arms to roll onto his side with a groan. "I'm taking that as a compliment," he tells her, and when he looks at her, she is smiling like the sun.

"You should," she assures, the hand that had been trapped between them hasn't moved, except to swirl lazily through his mess. Her fingers slip and skate, and she must still be high, he thinks, that or she is entirely lacking in modesty in a way that thrills him. "I feel amazing."

"I've done my job then," he says smugly, leaning in to brush a kiss against her cheekbone, another a little closer to her lips. He nudges her nose with his, kisses her mouth, warm and lingering, and she lets him, reciprocates. He contents himself with tasting her, with skimming his fingers up and down the soft skin of her arm until she is languid and sleepy against him. "You should rest," he tells her, reluctant to leave her as he is, and then, "And I should get back to Roland."

Regina nods, and smiles dopily at him, he's pretty sure she's still feeling the effects of the rookweed, even if they're waning now. "Thank you, for this," she says, and Robin fights the urge to grin and to needle her about _finally_ remembering her manners after all these weeks she's spent repaying his kindness with cutting remarks. But she adds, "It helped," with such sincerity that he quells the urge.

Instead he simply tells her, "You're quite welcome. It was, in every sense of the word, my pleasure." She's smiling still, and he kisses the curve of her lips, lets his tongue dart out against hers one last time, then pushes himself up with a sigh and searches for his various articles of clothing.

"Robin..." she says as he's fastening his pants, and he looks up at her. She's slipped beneath the covers, and her eyes are already closed, her expression peaceful.

"Yes?"

"This won't happen again," she tells him, and he feels a pang of something, disappointment, but she's frowning now that she's said it, like she regrets the words, or maybe that's just him being hopeful.

He leans over her again, presses his lips to hers in an attempt to wipe that frown away, and murmurs, "We'll see."

He half expects her to gripe at him, but all she does is chortle softly, and settle deeper into the pillows. He dresses quietly, and he's fairly certain she's fast asleep by the time he slips from her chambers.

The next day, at morning meal, he watches for her, and when she strolls in, regal as ever, she catches his eye and he does not miss the way her lips twitch up before she forces her gaze away, forces her mouth into a scowl. They act as if nothing happened between them, because he knows that's what she'd want, but for a while she's slightly less vicious in her remarks toward him, and her every future attempt to cut him down verbally falls a bit short, seems hollow and obligatory. Like she's playing a role, the Obstinate Queen.

He sees through her, though, remembers the way she'd opened for him, the way she'd smiled and clutched and cried out, he remembers Regina. He sees her underneath The Queen's every façade, now, and he wonders how long it will take her to let him back in.

It takes a curse, and wiped memories, and a few charming attempts at flirtation, a carefully guarded heart.

But he gets her back, Regina, in the end.


End file.
